


i take your hand

by bigdrool



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canonical Character Death, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-07
Updated: 2020-04-07
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:35:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23527750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigdrool/pseuds/bigdrool
Summary: Years after renouncing his family name, Sylvain returns to the Gautier estate for a mission. There, he discovers both the good and the bad from his childhood are still waiting.
Relationships: Sylvain Jose Gautier/Claude von Riegan
Comments: 14
Kudos: 65





	i take your hand

The Gautier estate, when Sylvain returns to it four months after the war, is more lush in the dead of summer than he remembers. The wind isn't biting as it ruffles through the evergreens, carrying with it the scent of pine and wood. Without any staff left to tend to the grounds, the once immaculate exterior is left muddied and uneven between patches of grass and dirt, roots and vines tangling where decorative flora used to bed.

At his side, Ingrid speaks softly as she leads her pegasus and his wyvern toward the stables, the place suited to neither beast, but Sylvain knows that Ingrid will ensure that they're as comfortable as they can be.

He's grateful for her as he enters the old house, steps echoing in the empty space. It's not as foreboding as he would've thought considering the exterior, and the summer sun still streams inside through the home's large windows, casting light on all the jarring little details that Sylvain may not have noticed in the dark: the way that, in one of the meeting rooms, only one chair out of a set of four remains; the doors to the servants' passages, always closed, are now open, revealing portions of the house Sylvain didn't even know existed. It's the work of his parents' escape, though anyone might look and assume that the estate had been laid siege to by bandits.

There isn't much in terms of valuables anywhere in the house, not that Sylvain gives the cause much chase. They're here only to sort through what remains of his parents' things, to see if there are any clues regarding Those Who Slither In The Dark. To see how far reaching the influence of that organization was that it could've tipped the course of the country so soundly and so easily.

That's the only reason they're here, not out of any sense of nostalgia or attachment to his childhood home that Sylvain might have, and still, he finds himself in his old bedroom first, the space as bare as the rest of the house.

Except for a ring on the bed, bone-white and carved in the pattern of a crown of thorns.

"What's that?" Ingrid wastes little time in reappearing at his side, her usually stern expression softened by concern as her gaze goes between the ring—now on Sylvain's palm—and his face.

"I don't remember," he answers, even though, suddenly, he does.

_Welcome back._

* * *

In the moments that he allows himself to dwell on it, Sylvain looks back at his childhood with a confusing mixture of gratitude and grief. Even now, ten years since he'd last seen his brother and almost eight years from the day he'd left his family behind, his chest goes tight from the fear in those memories; his hands shake as if frostbitten and clumsy, and each breath feels like the last, as if he can't know whether his lungs will expand again or if they'll shrivel from the poison in Miklan's words, still so potent even in the conjuring within his own mind.

As an escape, he thinks of the small moments of relief. Even as a crybaby too young to unravel the secrets that Sylvain kept from him, Felix had been fiercely protective when he sensed something was amiss. Ingrid had her own burdens to bear, similar to Sylvain's while also being deeply personal, but she was always as stern as she was careful when they took the time to lick each other's wounds.

Amidst these recollections, so clear and sharp despite the years gone by, is something that Sylvain only remembers in his dreams.

It's nine days before Miklan leaves the Gautier household—though Sylvain hadn't known it at the time, couldn't have known that this wouldn't be his life forever—and he's in the woods that surround their estate. The thick firs poke at his exposed cheeks and forehead as he battles the branches with his lance, and though they have no way of piercing a Faerghus coat, he's sure he'll be picking pines out of his clothes for weeks.

It's training, he remembers thinking to himself, even if it had felt so much more like running away.

He's out there until he's unable to stand any longer, hands burning hot inside his gloves and the ground ice cold underneath him without even the sun to shed some warmth on it. In the night air, his breath puffs out a white cloud in front of his nose, and in its wake two green eyes come into view.

Two eyes, bright despite the darkness of the night and the thick foliage around them, and so different from the deep green that Sylvain is used to seeing, like a treasure that he could never name.

He watches, breath caught in his throat until his vision goes blurry from the chill creeping down to deadlier temperatures. When he blinks, the gaze is gone, and his chest inexplicably aches from the loss.

Later, when he's shaking the pine needles out of his coat, something soft and small falls onto the wooden floors of his bedroom. A ring, carved in white like bone in a slender arcing pattern that reminds Sylvain of a hunting season from years prior, sits on his floor. It's too big for his knobby fingers, but it reminds him of bright eyes and he decides that he's going to keep it safe.

* * *

The sound of Sylvain's knife hitting the cutting board resounds throughout the kitchen like a metronome ( _thud, thud_ —). When he stops, the air waits for the silence to fill again.

This time, footsteps. Not Ingrid's.

Warmth fills over his back when a weight settles there, a hand trailing down his arm. For a second, Sylvain wonders if it's heading toward the knife in his hands and if he should be scared (what would he need a knife for, though? with nails like talons, the colour of pure gold), but it goes for the ring on his finger instead, now a perfect fit. A thumb traces along the curves carved into the material, gentle and thoughtful, the gesture enough to steal the tension from Sylvain's body.

"Are you here to take this back?" Sylvain asks, casual, even though he already knows the answer.

The way the hand traces the ring is reverent— appreciative. He's yearning for something, but it's not the return of an old piece of jewelry.

He holds his breath when he hears the reply, voice trailing the same path down his arm as his hand had as though it were a physical force.

_No._

Despite the chill the sound sends through him, there's still something charming about his voice. It almost sounds human, and for a second Sylvain considers relaxing. But—

_It's yours._

He's alone.

* * *

Their search doesn't yield much in the way of results, but Edelgard had warned them that they might need to use unconventional methods to find any clues or papers. An organization that survived centuries in spite of the absolute power that the Church of Seiros held over the country could only be well versed in secrecy. The nobles of Faerghus were among the most devoted, and the most obsessed with the class system created by crests, but Sylvain wouldn't discount any options yet.

With both sons disavowing the Gautier inheritance, who could say what his mother and father would do.

At the same time, they're not finding anything, and Sylvain doesn't know how much longer he's willing to stay in the estate. He's no longer haunted by the ghosts of his past, but that doesn't mean he wants to remain roommates with them.

On one sunny afternoon, he ventures into his old bedroom and finds it occupied, the posture of the occupant more relaxed as he sits in the window than Sylvain ever remembers being in this house.

Sylvain needs a moment to really take him in; looking considerably more corporeal than he had the past two times that Sylvain had seen him. In the previous times, he'd felt like little more than spirit: half real, and half hallucination. He was more the sensation of a chill than a physical creature.

Now, he looks real. And for some reason that is both as relieving as it is frightening.

"You won't find anything."

He's facing out the window still, but Sylvain hears the words loud and clear. It's not a ghostly whisper this time, a cold chill trailing over his nape and sinking further into his chest.

The voice, honey sweet and thoughtful, is enough to distract him from where he's tracing the pattern of strong antlers protruding from tufts of brown hair with his eyes—beautiful and so like the object around his finger. The sound only propels Sylvain to stare harder, drinking in the sight like a man who never knows when he might find an oasis again.

He must have taken too long to respond, because soon enough the silence breaks again.

"About your father working with the organisation. You won't find anything because he never did."

He's talking about the mission. About a part of Sylvain's life that extends far beyond this estate and this house, which he likely haunts, and Sylvain's stomach turns.

He steps closer, just to see if the stark reality of this encounter will fade into the fuzzy familiarity of a dream.

"You look pretty human for being a spirit that watches over the land." He has no doubt that the statements are true, so he doesn't bother questioning them. This moment feels fleeting, and he's waiting for it to disappear with each beat of his heart.

If he could know even one thing about what all of _this_ is he would take it.

He gets a reward for his boldness when a gust whips up beyond the window, the gales forcing his guest to turn inward. The sight of bright eyes almost sends him stumbling forward to cross the distance between them, suddenly afraid to lose this moment to time; another memory to add to his collection.

But he knows it's over as soon as he sees the melancholy that's thrumming in his own chest reflected on those beautiful features. As soon as he feels rather than hears the answer to his statement: that it wasn't the land being watched over.

* * *

The next day, Ingrid finally decides, "We should leave."

It's not surprising. They've been here over a week now without anything to offer, and this isn't the only thing on their plate.

"We haven't found a single thing that links your parents to Those Who Slither In The Dark," she continues. "We might as well head back and let Edelgard and Dimitri know rather than bothering with letters."

She's right, and he has no reason to disagree with her, but that doesn't stop him from offering up a perfunctory, "Aw, Ingrid. But I love roleplaying as the mom and dad of this house with you."

A few years ago a comment like that would've earned him a heel jammed into his foot or a palm upside the head, but now, one war later, Ingrid only shoots him a simpering glare before dismissing his idiocy with a sigh and a shake of her head.

"I take it you have no issues then. We can spend the rest of the day doing a bit more digging and doing inventory for our journey back. Let's aim to leave tomorrow morning."

They're in the yard at the back of the estate, the summer warm enough that being outside is more pleasant than being inside. Still, the wind that picks up at that moment feels cold enough to make his eyes water.

That afternoon, Sylvain is creeping through one of the servants' passages that runs through the walls of the estate while Ingrid takes stock of their food supplies when he bumps into something soft and warm. He'd steeled himself to no longer be surprised by the weight of those eyes, bright and glowing despite the darkness around them, but he can't help a gasp at the physical warmth of the figure in front of him, something he couldn't even say with certainty was corporeal.

Shock aside, Sylvain speaks first, growing steadily more determined to gain some control over these encounters, "Well, this isn't the most romantic location for a date, but I have to admire you waiting for me in the dark all alone."

He has no idea what he's doing, flirting with some sort of supernatural creature, but Sylvain's heart soars all the same when he hears a quiet, amused scoff. He has a feeling that something is brewing, feeling emboldened by how close they are and how distant the rest of the world is. There's a rush from the proximity, the feeling of _maybe_ that makes him believe they could both leave this rotting house.

"You're leaving tomorrow morning."

Sylvain's eyebrows lift, but he still answers without missing a beat, "That's plenty of time to enjoy ourselves tonight."

Another chuckle, another victory. This one short lived when he speaks again, voice soft.

"You should leave tonight, before it grows too dark."

Sylvain blinks, taken off-guard and left unbalanced when he feels the distance between them widening despite not having taken a step forward or back.

"Why?" he jokes, unsettled by his own reaction. "Tired of me already?"

The question doesn't land as smoothly as he wants it to, and he kind of hates the way that it hangs in the air, only realizing that he's alone again after he's asked it. His fist curls against the wall of the passageway, hard enough that the grooves of the ring around his finger dig into his skin.

* * *

Later, Sylvain will think that he should've taken that advice.

But when he first wakes to fire, smoke and pretty green eyes, Sylvain sees the house of his childhood and his nightmares up in flames, and _spits_ at the creature standing over his bedside with a dagger in hand, "You wanted me to leave this badly?"

He doesn't get a chance to regret or second guess his accusations when he's being pulled out of his bed and shoved upright. (He no longer touches him like a ghost, quick and fleeting, and the roughness of his hands feel disorientingly human if not for the cold, like the cut of a gale through an open field before it escapes into the woods.) By the time he's regained his balance, he's left alone with nothing but the words, _Ingrid needs your help._

Ingrid.

Any outrage or despair that might have festered immediately disappears in the face of his fear, the Lance of Ruin, its crest stone burning all the brighter among the fire, in his hands before he's running out of his bedroom and down the hall.

"Ingrid!" he shouts in the direction of her bedroom, belated yanking his shirt over his nose and mouth to protect from the smoke, hesitating for a moment to decide whether to run toward her room or the staircase in the opposite direction. Ingrid had a habit of slipping out during the night to check on her pegasus and the other steeds, and if she'd been outside, it would explain why she hadn't come get him herself—

His split second hesitation gets him an answer.

"Sylvain, up the stairs!"

She's downstairs, her warning coming just in time for him to see a ragged form barrelling up the stairs, sword drawn and eyes enraged.

Sylvain supposes he should thank the horrors he'd witnessed during the war that he can still raise his weapon in defence despite the bile rising up past his throat.

Miklan's face is a sneer behind his blade, expression more drawn and worn down than Sylvain had ever wanted to see him. His voice sounds like something dark and broken being pulled from Sylvain's core, "I didn't think you'd have the balls to come back here." 

"What do you want, Miklan?" Sylvain's voice is calm, tired and drained of emotion. He'd spent a decade trying to revive the pieces of himself that his family had driven him to kill, but he'd never been able to revive this: the part of his heart that could still care for his brother.

Here, there's still a void.

"You're not going to find any of father's wealth here," he continues, pushing Miklan back with his lance, and meeting him again, blade to blade. "Looters pillaged whatever he didn't take with him."

Miklan's laugh is uglier than Sylvain remembers it, rasping from the smoke around them and so full of malice. He looks deranged, unrepentant, holding his sword without any form, like the only intent in his body is to carve up as much of Sylvain as he can. Looking at him, Sylvain realizes with a sinking feeling that he might actually have to kill him.

"I don't want that bastard's damn money." Miklan shakes his head, and when he looks back at Sylvain, his gaze is fixed right on the Lance of Ruin. "I want the pride and joy that you stole when you ran from this house like a coward, and then I want to run you through with it and put an end to this godforsaken bloodline."

He doesn't give Sylvain a chance to respond before pushing forward again, sword raised in a strike meant to lob Sylvain's head from his shoulders that's so painfully wide that it has no chance of landing. Sylvain deflects and parries the blow with ease, but when he draws his next breath he can feel the smoke from the fire still raging around them burn through his lungs.

They need to leave, or else the smoke will do Miklan's work for him (hilariously, even one year ago Sylvain might've agreed with Miklan's logic, and found good reason to give himself up for the cause of erasing this family from existence), but he doesn't get another step toward the staircase before Ingrid's voice is crying out again—"Sylvain!"—and something finally crumbles from the fire. Whether it's the wall, ceiling or even the floorboards beneath them, Sylvain can't tell when fire sears over his nape and burning wood crashes over his shoulder hard enough to bring him to his knees.

It's a miracle that the hall doesn't collapse under him, the butt of his lance jamming into the ground the only thing that keeps him falling further. He can't, because if he falls, he has no doubt that Miklan would take his head.

—That is, if Miklan were still there standing in front of him, because when Sylvain lifts his gaze again, sweat plastering his hair to his forehead, Miklan is gone. One of the paintings from the wall is up in flames where he'd stood.

Sylvain's laugh comes as a wheeze from all the smoke. He should've known better than to expect Miklan to keep his word, even when those words were death threats against Sylvain's life. He'd run in the hopes that the fire would do his work for him.

Sylvain's shoulder screams as he forces himself back up, the skin bright and bloody from taking the hit, rubbing painfully against the charred remains of his sleeve, but once he's back on his feet, he moves. Down the stairs and in the foyer, he can see Ingrid struggling against Miklan's remaining lackey, two bodies already on the ground and one last hulking form cornering her in the former waiting room.

She's determined, but injured from being outnumbered, one of her arms limp and weight balanced precariously on one leg, and when she sees Sylvain close the distance between them she doesn't hesitate to strike a blow that she knows won't land.

So that Sylvain can drive his lance between the bandit's shoulder blades, the Lance of Ruin's crest stone blazing bright where it sinks into the man's chest.

Ingrid doesn't relax when the final body is added to the floor around then, breaths coming heavy in the hot air around them, though she bats away Sylvain's help when he offers it.

"I'm going to get our supplies." The medicinal supplies, he assumes. They'd kept them in the kitchens, which were on the other side of the estate and hopefully hadn't yet gone up in flames. "Get Miklan. He went out the front, he might be targeting our steeds to ensure we don't make it out of here."

"Got it," Sylvain answers without hesitation, though the urgency of the situation doesn't keep him from stopping for a moment, smiling and genuine as he looks at her. "Sorry for sleeping in."

Ingrid graces him with an eyeroll before shoving his good arm. "Just get going."

Getting outside the building brings with it a blessed respite from the heat and the smoke—all the more reason for concern to churn in his gut for Ingrid, even though she's more than capable to handling herself—but Sylvain doesn't allow himself to relax for even a second, grip tight on his lance and eyes roving over the open area at the front of the estate. It's cloudy, leaving the fire the only source of light, and making the image of his surroundings flicker with the flames.

Despite the darkness, he still manages to catch sight of a green more brilliant than any mountain fir before pain explodes in the back of his head, and everything—the darkness, the fire, and those green eyes—is wiped out by black.

* * *

Miklan is the first thing Sylvain sees when his eyes open again.

Then his vision expands: Miklan, lying on the ground not too far from him, words useless and garbled as he tries to breathe around his slit throat, and the dagger Sylvain had first seen at his bedside covered in blood so rich it looks like a jewel in the light of the fire, as if everything that man touched became breathtaking.

A gasp for air rips out of him, eyes squeezing shut against the pain in his head, his arm, and the horror rolling through him from his heart down to his stomach.

Miklan could've done anything after he'd been forced out of the estate, lived anywhere, become anything. Their father is gone, the nobility would be disbanded and society reformed.

But he came back to this place to die.

"Do you want me to do it?"

The question gets Sylvain to raise his head, looking from the man who saved him to his brother, in wretched pain as he bleeds out.

The fire is still raging and the house is still standing, and Ingrid hadn't yet come to find him, so he assumes that it had only been a few minutes that he'd been out. A blow to the back of the head to spare Miklan any danger when he finally ended Sylvain's life.

It makes him laugh as he gets back up and retrieves his lance, thinking of how many years he spent being terrified of his older brother. "You're a fucking coward, Miklan. You never dared dream that you could be better than this, did you?"

He wants to laugh again, but instead it's all that he can do to keep from closing his eyes when he looks Miklan in the face and finds desperation where he expects pain, or fear or hatred.

It is, Sylvain thinks when he sinks the Lance of Ruin into his chest, holding it there until the life drains from his eyes, the only proof he's ever gotten that Miklan ever had a heart.

He keeps standing, supported by the warmth of fresh air and promise, and a hand in his that digs his ring hard into his skin. Then, he takes a deep breath and goes to look for Ingrid.

* * *

Sylvain buries Miklan in the woods behind the estate, standing over his grave while Ingrid finishes the preparation for their departure. She shouldn't have to do it alone with her injuries, but Sylvain isn't chivalrous enough to step in and she's too kind to ask.

He doesn't waste any more time staring at the grave when he finds himself with company, sick of looking at the mound of upturned earth.

"Thank you," he says quietly, meeting his eyes, feeling for once at peace instead of unsettled when he takes in the swoop of his antlers and the beauty of his dress, unlike anything he'd ever seen in Faerghus and beyond. "For saving my life."

There's silence for a moment, and just when Sylvain starts to wonder whether he's actually hallucinating, he hears, "You're welcome."

And he doesn't disappear, no matter how many seconds Sylvain counts in his head.

"So what is this exactly?" He looks down at the ring on his finger, bone white and beautiful. "Some kind of wedding ring?"

"Sort of." Which is not what Sylvain had been expecting despite his joke, but he doesn't get the chance to interject. "It's my freedom."

"Your… freedom," Sylvain repeats, trying to make sure that he'd heard correctly. He looks back at the ring, unsure of how to interpret the information. "And you just gave that to me? Why?"

He gets a soft hum in reply, melodious and sweet enough that he can feel his heartbeat pick up in his chest, a cool breeze gathering around them that tosses his hair into his eyes. But he's learned his lesson by now, and he keeps his gaze fixed on his companion, refusing to lose sight of him.

"I knew that you would give it back to me someday."

He extends a hand in Sylvain's direction, palm open and expectant.

Carefully, Sylvain takes the ring off as requested, ignoring the open palm with a cheeky grin as he slides it right onto a finger instead, taking a moment to hold the hand in his grasp.

"Does this mean we're breaking up?" He can't resist cracking a joke, feeling panic as the seconds go by, as Ingrid grows closer to calling him back, as this moment slips away like so many before it.

What he doesn't expect, is for once the distance between them to grow smaller, for lips both warm and distant to brush against his own, and to hear a voice speak directly into his heart, "Not a chance."

* * *

Claude isn't native to Gautier—or anywhere in Fódlan—and he's hardly guardian of the land.

He's a traveller, whimsical and free enough that he can move across the world as he pleases; from the lush forests of Brigid to the deserts of Sreng. There's no rhythm or reason to where he goes or how long he spends his time in any one place, as long as he can enjoy his time and learn from the land and the culture.

The northern reaches of Faerghus aren't exactly what he would consider welcoming or cozy, but he can admit despite the long stretches of brilliant white snow, there's beauty to the mountains, and the resilience of the firs and the fauna that survive there. To the people surviving.

He can see it, when he wanders across the Gautier estate, where the land is bitterly cold and the climate harshly unforgiving. It's there that a boy finds him, grip tight on his lance; enduring, surviving.

And looking desperate for help. For even a quarter of the freedom that Claude so easily enjoys.

So Claude, counting the years of a human life, offers him some of his own.

* * *

Garreg Mach is too hot in the summer. It's a small blessing that he's not wearing his armour, but even that's not enough to ward off the relentless sunshine and heat. The journey from the most northern point of the continent had been slow and meandering, but despite the heat, Sylvain can safely say that he's looking forward to getting off the road and stepping back into his tiny dorm room.

If only because he can sense Ingrid's patience for him steadily reaching its end, and he fears for his life if they don't get some time apart from each other soon.

Dimitri is waiting for them at the gate, which is expected though unnecessary, but the smile on his face at seeing his old friend lasts only a moment when the rest of the greeting party comes into view. Something stops in his chest, and he walks forward like he doesn't trust his next step to not take him to another place and time.

Even with his head bereft of a crown, there's something still ethereal about him when he meets Sylvain's gaze, his hand raised in a salute and a ring made of bone on his finger.

_Welcome home._

**Author's Note:**

> For some background, Miklan was kicked out of the Gautier household when Sylvain was 15, but Sylvain still left the family two years later.
> 
> Also, this is a mashup of canon where Dimitri and Edelgard reconnect at Garreg Mach, dismantle the Church and take on TWSITD together. Golden Deer is led by Hilda much to everyone's horror.
> 
> Cue me agonizing over how to include Claude's name. :C


End file.
